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On Friday morning, Justin jolted upright at 6:15, dismayed to realize he'd slept through the alarm. "Fuck!" he shouted, springing to his feet, scooping up his uniform, and dashing to the bathroom. He didn't even have enough time for a sponge bath, so he just splashed water on his face and sprayed some deodorant on his pits. Quickly examining the blond stubble on his cheeks, he decided it was so faint that no one would notice it.

After pulling on his clothes, he hurried back to his bedroom, where he grabbed his calculus textbook and shoved it into his backpack. That was the only text he'd removed the night before, as he'd practiced that computer writing Daph had mentioned.

Justin had no idea what time Deb and Vic had gotten home from Michael's birthday do; he'd been so knackered that he passed out the moment he'd placed his head on the pillow.

The teen clomped down the stairs two at a time, leaping over the last three to land on the ground floor.

"Sunshine?" Debbie called, poking her head out of the kitchen.

"Later!" Justin replied as he shrugged on his coat before yanking open the door. "I've got a meeting with Dr Jerkins."

After slamming the door shut, he jogged toward the bus stop at a fast clip, waving madly as he saw it pulling away. Shit! He was going to be late for the meeting with the principal.

Fortunately, the driver must've seen him in the rear-view mirror because he stopped the bus and waited for the panting teen.

"Thanks," Justin gasped, as he climbed the steps, flashing his bus pass at the man.

"Cutting it a little fine, aren't you?" the driver inquired.

"Fuck, I know," Justin responded. "I slept through the goddamned alarm."

"Might want to get one like mine," the middle-aged bloke, with a spare tire around his middle, suggested. He looked around to make sure none of the other passengers would overhear before confiding, "It sounds like a hot, young filly screaming during orgasm."

"Uh, no thanks," the teen stammered. "Mine usually works just fine." He quickly made his way toward the middle of the bus, slumping into his seat in relief. Dr Jerk-. Justin quickly cut himself off; at this rate, he'd call the St James' headmaster that during the meeting. He could only imagine how the homophobic administrator would retaliate.

Once he got to the school, Justin rushed through the halls until he reached the library. "Can I dump my bag here?" he asked, heaving for breath.

"Of course," the friendly librarian immediately replied, setting down the book she'd been perusing.

"I've got a meeting with Dr Jer- um, I mean Dr Perkins at 7:30," the teen explained.

Frau Rose pressed her lips together, as if suppressing a smirk at Justin's near slip of the tongue. Glancing at the clock, she asserted, "That gives you just enough time to put yourself to rights, young man."

"Huh?" Justin responded, glancing down at himself and flushing when he discovered his shirt was buttoned wrong. Something about the knot in his tie looked off too. "Shit," he muttered. Frau Rose must think he was a complete pillock who didn't know how to dress himself. "Ehm, I overslept and almost missed the bus," he weakly excused his disarray.

"I've seen worse," the librarian teased, her eyes twinkling. "Off to the bathroom with you - again - and set yourself to rights."

The blond sheepishly trudged in that direction, with the amused teacher calling after him, "Be sure to run a comb through your hair, too. There's one in the medicine cabinet."

What he wouldn't give for a cup of joe, the teen mused to himself as he waited outside Perkins' office ten minutes later, trying not to fidget under the hostile stares of the Misses Cuthbert and Mefford. They were watching him closely, as if suspecting he was going to make off with the heavy metal stapler that was affixed to the counter.

When Justin had walked into the outer office, Ms Mefford had haughtily informed him that the headmaster was on a very important phone call, so he'd have to wait. The teen had mused sardonically that the "golf on Sunday" Perkins was loudly discussing must, indeed, be critical.

He'd started to take a seat in one of the two chairs along the wall outside the principal's office, but Ms Cuthbert had sneered, "I wouldn't do that if I were you. Dr Perkins will be off the phone any moment, ready to discuss the damage to school property with you. It won't look good if you've made yourself comfortable before a meeting in which you need to explain your actions."

The teen had gritted his teeth to keep himself from shouting that he was blameless, that he hadn't torched his own locker, for fuck's sake. There was no way he could change their opinion of the gay boy, so he might as well save his breath, he'd finally decided.

An eternity - all of five minutes according to the wall clock - passed in silence before the phone on Ms Cuthbert's desk rang. The secretary pushed a button, and Perkins voice boomed out, "Is that faggot out there?"

The woman didn't even look ashamed of her unprofessionalism in not picking up the phone to speak to the principal. Did she not realize the school could be liable for slander? the teen wondered. She, Perkins, and the school would be in deep shit if someone were to sue St James for that disparagement. Not that he'd stand a chance with that kind of suit, he reflected bitterly; it would be his word against theirs.

"Yes, Dr Perkins," the secretary simpered, "he's here. Would you like me to send him in?"

"Do that. I'll get the truth out of him," the headmaster responded.

"Well, go on then," Cuthbert ordered. "Don't keep Dr Perkins waiting."

Justin marched into the principal's office, head held high. He held out his hand for the man to shake, but was unsurprised when Perkins ignored his polite gesture. Although his heart was pounding in an anxious rhythm, the teen maintained a calm facade, claiming one of the chairs in front of Perkins' desk, crossing his legs nonchalantly.

"What's your name again?" the balding principal, who was starting to go to seed, asked, shuffling around a couple of folders on his desk.

The fucker damned well knew his name, Justin seethed. He'd opened his mouth to respond anyway when the headmaster dismissed his question with a muttered, "Doesn't matter."

Well, that was about right, the blond thought. He didn't matter to St James, except for the tuition his parents paid.

"Look, son," Perkins declared with feigned sincerity, "we don't want you to get into even more trouble than you're already in. If you admit to torching your locker, we'll take it easy on you."

I'm not your son, you condescending bastard, Justin imagined himself screaming. Rather than say anything, he simply arched one blond eyebrow in inquiry.

"You'll only have to spend two weeks in detention and another two weeks cleaning out the athletic room." Perkins magnanimously offered.

Did the man really believe he'd subject himself to abuse from the jocks by hanging out in the athletic room? Justin had avoided the place ever since jerking off Hobbs. The teen briefly mused that he still wasn't sure why he'd done it. The jock was a bully, not particularly good looking, and had a tiny dick.

"Well?" Perkins demanded. "What's your answer? Do you want us to take this matter to the police? You could end up in juvie, you know."

Justin really wanted to kick himself for not confiding in Carl and asking his advice the night before. He clasped his sweaty hands together, worrying that St James might somehow frame him as the culprit. "Dr Perkins," he rasped from a dry throat, "I did not set my locker on fire. I'm the victim, not the perpetrator. I understood the purpose of the meeting was for you to authorize the issuance of a new locker."

"All the proof points at you young man," Perkins responded sternly, making Justin's palms sweat more. "If I were you, I'd accept the proposed punishment with good grace."

The school bell began to chime eight o'clock as the principal finished that ominous statement. Justin rose to his feet, unsure if his legs would support him. Raising his chin, he insisted, "I won't pay for a crime I didn't commit. Since the school is accusing me of the vandalism, I'll speak to my lawyer about how I should proceed. Now I need to go, or I'll be late for class." Justin walked to the door, and as he pulled it open, turned and announced, "By the way, my name's not ‘faggot.' It's Taylor. Justin Taylor."

Holding his head high, Justin didn't look at the secretaries as he exited the principal's domain. Once out in the hall, he dashed madly toward his calculus classroom, slumping into his seat as the final chime for the hour faded away. Fuck, he congratulated himself, he should have gone out for track; he'd never sprinted so fast in his life.

"Nice of you to join us, Taylor," Dixon jibed, undoubtedly disappointed that he couldn't dock the teen for tardiness.

The moment the teacher's attention was diverted by an actual late arrival, Daphne hissed, "Jus, are you okay? Where's your rucksack?"

"Shit!" Justin muttered as he realized he'd left his bag in the library. "Could I borrow one of your pencils, Daph? I'll have to grab my bag between classes."

"Sure. Here you go." Daph gave him one of her extras. "You'll tell me what's going on at lunch, right?"

"Yeah," Justin nodded at his bestie, more grateful than ever for her unflagging support.

Dixon handed a set of revision exams to the student at the head of each row to pass back, warning, "I expect better results this time around. Any of you who have a failing grade after this will spend the rest of the semester in study hall and will have to make up this course during the summer."

Justin forced himself to block out all the whines, plaintive sighs, and other noises, concentrating on the exam. He was determined to do his best to prevent Dixon from marking him down this time.

 

Brian's day also started off poorly. He was staring at the latest iteration of the boards for the Iams advert and was ready to pull out his hair in frustration. He'd lost count of how many times he'd sent the bloody prelims back to the art department. Every single time, he'd received a mangy, undernourished mutt in return; even providing Justin's sketch on a napkin apparently hadn't been enough to inspire them to draw a healthy, happy dog - one that would actually lure owners into buying the product.

His headache worsening, he reached into his desk drawer, fumbling for the bottle of painkillers he kept there. Unfortunately, when he withdrew it, he discovered it was empty. Just as he was about to bellow for his assistant, the blonde stuck her head through the door, a worried frown on her face.

"Uh, Brian?" she asked, uncharacteristically hesitant.

"What is it?" the ad exec barked, holding out the bottle and hoping she'd take the hint.

"You're going to want something stronger than that," Cynthia informed him.

Fuck. The blonde was usually unflappable. What could it be now? Brian wondered, as he waited for her to continue.

"I've just heard a rumor, but I'm pretty sure it's true," Cynthia explained. "Apparently, all because of that Kip Thomas slimeball, Ryder is considering giving you the boot, based on the legal department's advice. It might even happen today."

"Chickenshit fucker," Brian muttered, resting his chin in his hands and staring at the blonde. "Do you have any other details?"

"Not much," Cynthia shook her head, "but there may be a big payout involved. Bethany in accounting got that from the gal who assists the head of legal."

"I'd better call Melanie and give her a heads-up," Brian mused, "although it will be kind of difficult to decide how to respond until Ryder actually sacks me."

"Have you thought about what I suggested?" Cynthia probed. At Brian's blank look, she reminded him, "You know... opening your own firm."

Brian regarded his assistant contemplatively. "That might not be a bad idea," he reflected, "provided the severance package is large enough. Even so, starting my own agency would require a fuckton of capital and hours upon hours of work."

"I'll help you," Cynthia eagerly offered. "Heck, I'm already your assistant, dogsbody, and gofer - all in one capable package," she joked, gesturing at herself.

"So, you wanna come with me as my assistant, huh?" he inquired, leaning back in his chair. The more he thought about it, the better the idea sounded. Sure, it would take months to bring it to fruition, but he was the best adman in Pittsburgh, maybe on the east coast...

"I sure as fuck don't want to stay here, with Ryder and all the other sleazeballs who are forever groping me," Cynthia adamantly declared. "Plus, without you, I don't know how this place will stay afloat; you're the one bringing in almost all the new accounts."

"I tell you what," Brian drawled, "you come with me to my new agency, run your tail off for me, and - once the agency is turning a healthy profit - I'll consider making you my partner. Provided you complete your business degree first, of course."

Cynthia gaped at him in astonishment, speechless for once.

Brian praised her some more, "You do possess excellent organizational and research skills, after all."

Snapping out of her amazed stupor, Cynthia concurred. "That's one hundred and ten percent true. You know, I'd be interested in running the HR department down the road..."

"Right now," Brian chuckled, "our unnamed agency consists of me, you, and no one else. No office, no furniture, no clients..."

"Ryder didn't put a non-compete clause in your contract, did he?" Cynthia asked, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "That means we can try and steal as many of your current clients as possible."

The ad exec exchanged a shark-like grin with his assistant. "Melanie added a rider to the contract," he replied, "making sure that wouldn't apply in case of termination. She was certainly correct that I needed to be prepared for all contingencies. Let me see if I can get her on the phone and ask how I should proceed when Ryder fires me." Getting sacked suddenly looked much more appealing than he ever could have imagined.

"A rider to the Ryder contract," Cynthia guffawed, rising and exiting his office as Brian punched in Melanie's number on his mobile. The bulldyke lawyer was, unfortunately, in court, so Brian left a voicemail asking her to ring him back as soon as possible.

 

"What do you think this is?" Daphne asked Justin at lunchtime, poking at the chunk of mystery meat with her fork. The two friends had immediately headed to the cafeteria, getting in line for a meal after their American Government class ended.

"Whatever it is, it's unpalatable," the blond replied, spitting out into his napkin the sliver that he'd dared to try. "I didn't think the school chefs could surpass their efforts with that pork from Monday, but somehow they've done it."

"Ugh, gross." Daphne scrunched up her nose and pushed her tray away. "It looks like some sort of alien meat. I'm not eating that."

Justin turned up his nose at the way overcooked vegetables and pushed his tray away too, staring disconsolately at the unsavory food as his stomach let out a rumble of protest.

"I knew it was in here somewhere!" his friend exulted, unearthing a packet of Fig Newtons from the depths of her backpack. "You take the first one," she generously offered, pushing the sweets over to Justin.

"You're a lifesaver," Justin claimed, eagerly tearing open the package and popping an entire Fig Newton into his mouth.

"Who are you?" Daphne asked, gasping in shock. "Michael?"

"What?" the affronted blond retorted, once he'd finished consuming the goodie. "I don't talk with food in my mouth or chew with my mouth open."

When the young woman collapsed in a fit of giggles, exclaiming, "Gotcha!" Justin realized he'd been fooled, that Daphne didn't actually think he chewed his cud like Michael did.

"You... you," he spluttered, unable to think of a good insult. Giving in, he started giggling too.

As the friends worked their way through the figgy package, Justin related the outcome of his meeting with the principal that morning. "Jerkins didn't even consider that I might be the victim," he angrily reported.

"He certainly lives up to the name ‘Jerkins,'" Daph agreed. "Maybe you should go to the police, Jus, like Deb and Vic advised," she muttered, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth.

"Yeah, about that," Justin confessed, "I could have told Detective Horvath last night when he dropped in at the diner."

"Fuck, Justin! Are you waiting for an engraved invitation?" Daphne interjected, obviously irate that her bestie hadn't confided in the copper.

"I know it was dumb... now," the dejected blond replied. "But yesterday I thought I still might be able to handle matters on my own, you know?"

"Well, you could still call him, right?" Daphne inquired. "Or even go by the police station and ask for him."

"I will. This afternoon. I pinky swear," Justin added, when his friend eyed him doubtfully. He held out his hand, entwining his little finger with Daphne's. Ever since they'd been wee nippers, a pinky swear had been a solemn oath between them, not to be broken.

"Okay, then," Daphne acknowledged. "I expect a full recounting tomorrow."

"What did you think of the calculus revision?" Justin asked, teasing, "I didn't hear you moaning and groaning like last time."

"It was easier this time," Daph admitted. "I'm pretty sure that I got at least a C-."

"It was pretty much a cinch this time around," Justin boasted. "I'm surprised Dixon didn't vary the problems more. Even with how carefully I wrote the solutions, though, I'm sure he'll find something to mark me down for."

"Braggart," his friend accused fondly, shaking her head. "Well at least we aren't among the poor fuckers who are flunking out and will have to retake the class."

"It would be a fate worse than death to have to endure that class all over again with Dixon," Justin concurred.

"Can we study together again? Maybe after Thanksgiving break?" Daphne inquired. "That really helped me."

"Sure. Wednesday the twenty-ninth, after I finish my shift?" Justin suggested.

"It's a date," Daph agreed, as the two of them stood up, scraping off their trays before pushing them through the window to the kitchen.

There was something a little odd about the gleam in his friend's eyes, but Justin couldn't quite put his finger on it. Shrugging it off, he chatted companionably with her as they headed toward their physics classroom.

 

While Brian's mood might have improved slightly after his talk with Cynthia, he was still feeling a little miffed at Ryder's actions later that afternoon. He had even tried torturing the art department to make himself feel a little better, but it hadn't helped much. He had been a vital part of this damned company as a senior account executive for the better part of five years, bringing in the majority of new accounts, yet it was so easy for Ryder to give him the boot. That was completely unfair, as well as stupid on his boss' part - what did the man expect to happen after Brian was gone? That the clients that had come on board thanks to Brian's skills and creativity would be satisfied with the subpar work Ryder would provide without him?

He sighed, rubbing a tired hand across his face. He should really concentrate on the damned Kofola account, or he'd never get it done. Even with his motivation to bring another account to Ryder rapidly dwindling, his sense of professionalism wouldn't let him leave the job half done. It should've really been in the art department already, but the planning of Michael's birthday party had slowed his progress. He'd hopefully have a lot more time now that his best friend had a boyfriend again, he thought. 

"I need to see Brian," a strident voice demanded, as if on cue, disturbing his sour thoughts.

"He's busy working on an account," Cynthia explained. "If you want to leave a message, I can ask him to get in touch with you later."

"No, it's important. I need to speak with him now," the man insisted, his shrill tone rising.

Feeling as if a drill were boring into his head, and wondering if he would ever catch a break on this hellish day, Brian rose to his feet and stalked over to the door, pulling it all the way open. "It's okay, Cynthia," he stated wearily. "Michael can come in."

"I should think so," his friend huffed, stomping into the office.

Cynthia winced, shooting a commiserating glance at her boss.

Brian raised his eyebrows ceiling-wards before following Michael into the office, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"What's so important that it can't wait?" he inquired sardonically, dropping onto one end of the sofa and motioning for Michael to take a seat.

"I told you at the party yesterday that I needed to talk to you further - about the horrid way you outed me to Tracy," Michael declared, plopping down almost on top of Brian. "Not that I'm ungrateful for the party," he tacked on. "You really came through for my thirtieth birthday."

Brian couldn't help feeling bad for his distraught friend, but shit, when was he going to twig to the fact that he'd done that for Michael, to make his life at the Big Q easier? He didn't give a flying fuck about being thanked for the birthday do; he just wanted it to have the desired effect of the man clinging to him a bit less tightly. Placing his hands on his friend's shoulders, he shook him lightly, asking in a mild tone, "Did you talk to Tracy today? I'm sure she would've confirmed what she said at the party yesterday."

"No," Michael pouted, "she wasn't scheduled to work today. Not that it matters... I wasn't ready to talk to her anyway."

Brian bit his tongue to keep from asking how he'd gotten so lucky that Michael was ready to talk to him. "Look, Mikey, maybe I overstepped in talking to Tracy, but you were treating her like shit, leading her on like that. If you didn't want to tell her the truth, you should've just said you were seeing someone else."

"But she might've guessed I'm gay," Michael protested. "After all, she saw me with you on Liberty Avenue."

"Ah, yes, me - the poor fag you were accompanying out of the goodness of your heart," Brian drily retorted. "What would I do without a friend like you, Mikey?"

"You'll never know," Michael professed, evidently missing Brian's sarcasm. "We'll always be together. Two queers spending their final days in Palm Springs."

"What a delightfully morbid thought," Brian quipped. Attempting to get the conversation back on track, he suggested, "Talk to Tracy tomorrow. Even if she's not ready to discuss the way you treated her, she'll confirm, again, that she won't out you at the Big Q. She could've done that already, if she'd wanted to. She knows what a homophobic rathole that place is; she's not going to do anything that would cost you your job."

"Maybe," Michael stated uncertainly, a mulish expression still covering his face. "Regardless, you shouldn't have done that to me," he reiterated.

Fuck. His friend was like a dog with a bone, Brian reflected.

"David told me this morning that I shouldn't have to work at a place like that," Michael awkwardly altered the direction of their conversation.

"Because of the homophobia?" Brian surmised. 

"Not exactly," Michael responded. "He thinks it's way beneath my skill level."

Christ. What skills did the doc think Mikey had? Brian wondered. "Hmm," he noncommittally offered.

"He said I should consider staying at home, that I could be a big help to him with hosting dinner parties and taking care of his son, Hank, when he comes for a visit," Michael revealed. "But I don't know if that's what I want. What do you think?"

"Michael, I just want you to be happy," Brian sincerely vowed. "And even though I didn't like him much at first, I think the doc is good for you. As to whether you want to be the little hausfrau, that's something you'll have to decide. Now, I really have to get back to work, okay?"

"Okay," Michael replied slowly, reluctance in his voice. "See you at Woody's later?"

"Maybe. I'll probably be here late catching up on a couple of accounts," Brian hinted, slinging an arm around his buddy's shoulders and steering him toward the door.

"We'll miss you if you aren't there," Michael admitted, looking soulfully at this friend.

"You'll survive," Brian responded wryly. "Have fun and don't do anything I wouldn't," he teased, bestowing a farewell kiss on Michael's lips.

"That doesn't leave out anything," Michael chuckled, "except, of course, bottoming." With that, he waved farewell and departed.

Brian must've had a weird look on his face, because when he glanced at his secretary, her face was full of avid curiosity. 

"Don't even ask," Brian ordered. "That's not a discussion we're having."

"For now," his secretary murmured, leaving no doubt in Brian's mind that, given the opportunity, she'd raise the topic of bottoming in the future. Fucking Mikey and his big mouth, he mused as he trudged back to his desk, where the dreaded Kofola account awaited.

 

Justin got off the bus a couple hundred yards away from the police station and took a deep breath. He was really doing this, he thought, he was really going to tell Detective Horvath someone had torched his locker. If the man had time for him, that was - he hadn't called ahead, perhaps subconsciously hoping the cop would be busy and couldn't speak to him.

"You need anything, lad?" a tall, strict-looking police officer asked him, voice full of suspicion. It was then that Justin realised he had been standing in front of the police station for some time.

"Uh, yeah. I'm here to speak to Detective Horvath but I don't know if he'll have time for me," he replied politely.

The copper sniffed. "What do you want with him?"

The teenager didn't like the man's tone. "I just want to speak to him," he repeated, with a little attitude this time.

The policeman raised his eyebrows. "Well, he doesn't want to speak to you, so scram."

Justin was just about to retort, gathering all of his wit and sass, when a deep female voice interrupted with two forceful words, "Anderson, leave."

The blond turned to see who had joined their conversation and came face to face with a short Asian woman, wearing a dark blue business suit and an impassive look on her face.

The copper immediately lost his smug expression, retreating. "Yes, ma'am," he muttered before scarpering.

The woman then turned to Justin, and the teenager steeled himself to meet her gaze, hoping he wouldn't piss his pants. When he did look at her, though, he was surprised to encounter warm eyes. "You said you needed to speak to Carl?" she asked him.

"Uh, yeah," he mumbled hesitantly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Speak up," she told him, reminding Justin of his mother. Scary.

"Yes, I am," he replied, enunciating clearly.

She nodded. "I'm Detective Wen," she introduced herself.

"Justin Taylor," he returned the courtesy, giving the woman a bright smile. She gave him an answering twitch of her lips, which Justin surmised was the most anyone would ever get out of her in terms of a smile.

"Come on then," she encouraged him, putting a firm hand on the small of his back, guiding him into the station. Justin let himself be maneuvered through hallways and up stairs, until they stopped in front of a door with a nameplate that read, ‘Det. C. L. Horvath, Det. M. Wen.'

"You're Detective Horvath's partner," the blond realised.

The Asian hmmed, opening the door. Motioning him in, she announced, "Justin Taylor here to see you, Carl."

The burly detective looked up from where he was slumped at his desk. "Justin?" he asked in surprise. "Did something happen?"

"Uh, yeah, kinda," the blond spluttered, shifting from one foot to the other, his usual articulateness deserting him.

Horvath narrowed his eyes. "Sit," he pointed at the chair in front of his desk, "and talk." His voice wasn't harsh but it was firm.

For some reason, the detective's tone calmed Justin down. He took the indicated seat, breathing in deeply, "I know I should have told you at the diner yesterday, but I still thought I could handle this by myself. It's hard enough for me as it is as the only ‘out' gay student at St James." He then launched into the story of the torched locker, faltering as the copper's frown grew darker, finally concluding, "I'm worried that Dr Jerk- I mean Perkins, is going to make me responsible for the entire incident."

The detective exchanged a furious look with his partner, who was standing by his side, clenching her fists. "You're right," he growled, the amount of effort it took him to control his voice obvious, "you should've told me yesterday." Then, exchanging another brief look with Wen, he lectured, "This sort of thing has to be nipped in the bud, Justin, otherwise it escalates and someone can get seriously hurt. We see it every day in our line of work."

Justin wilted in his chair at the fierce tone as well as the detectives' reactions. Debbie and Vic had been right, he now realised; there was no way he could handle something of this magnitude on his own. He didn't dare interrupt, though, as the copper continued speaking.

"I have to say I'm very disappointed in you," the policeman said regretfully, his face looking a little sad. "I had thought you'd have more brains than that, son."

The teenager wished he could crawl under the desk. He felt like a total mug for not reporting what he now understood was a serious crime. As Horvath looked at him, Justin recognized that the man really cared about him; otherwise, he wouldn't bother with the lecture. This must be what it would be like to have a proper dad, he reflected, one who actually cared about his well-being.

"Do you think I should talk to my lawyer?" he asked diffidently. "I'm not sure what's best right now."

The detectives glanced at each other again, making Justin think they had some sort of weird, secret eye language or magical mind-reading skills. "I'd ask you to wait a couple of days before you take any legal steps," the man said finally, apparently getting Wen's secret message. "I want to try and call your principal first, see if I can talk some sense into him. If not, I could send Ming here to scare the crap out of him," he finished, only half-jokingly.

Justin glanced at the other detective, who was still clenching and unclenching her fists rhythmically, a stony expression on her face. "If anyone can get through to that fu-" he stuttered to a halt, uncertain whether it was okay to use that kind of language.

He needn't have worried as Detective Wen dutifully finished the word for him. "Fucker," she gritted out through her teeth, a slight hint of an accent coming through in her anger.

Justin was very glad the deadly-looking copper was on his side. "Do I need to do anything else for now?" he asked, relieved that he'd come to talk to Horvath after all. "Fill out some kind of form or something?"

The detective nodded. "I don't have any with me here, since this is not really part of what I do anymore, but they should have some blank incident reports at the front desk." The burly man tilted his head in silent consideration. "You can bring it back here to fill out, so you'll have a quiet place to concentrate. I find all those muggers, brawlers, and prostitutes a little distracting."

Wen snorted at that but didn't otherwise comment, letting her partner continue. "I'll file it myself, so it doesn't get buried."

"Thanks," the teen replied sincerely, letting out a sigh. He was really doing this, reporting the St James administration to the police. Standing, he turned to the door, joking, "I think I can find my way through this labyrinth. If I'm not back in ten minutes, you can assume the prostitutes got to me."

The friendly detective chuckled. "Go, you brat," he waved him away fondly.

As Justin was leaving the office, he could hear the quiet murmuring of the two partners. He thought he heard the words ‘crack,' ‘nuts,' and something that sounded like ‘baychee,' which must be some kind of code word. It made him feel good that the two detectives were willing to personally handle his case, even though they surely had homicides to investigate.

 

Chapter End Notes:

Bái chi means 'idiot' in Chinese.

 

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